At night, the windows open, I'm not sleeping, not much, anyway. Instead I'm listening to the summer sounds, the cicadas and crickets, mostly, wondering whether I'll be able to discern the moment when their songs fall away into autumn. How else to know when to shut those windows?
From my perch, it all goes so fast, it's all so slippery and elusive. Can you blame me for wanting to fix a moment in time and space, for willing the operator to stop the Ferris wheel when I'm at the top, even as my stomach clutches and my hearts beats faster than it ought?
Yes, I'm lying low, and the only justification for it is that I'm not getting any younger.
Bear with me as I bear with you. And the world, the children of Syria. And my son in a fight with one of his best friends. And, you know, life, which explicably or not weights the clothesline, dropping it so close to the ground that the poor innocent clothes end up edged not in daisies but in dirt.